MR. VERINDER gave his orders now—foolish ones, as such orders always are. Miss Verinder was not to leave the house except when accompanied by her maid, or her mother. In the case of her issuing forth with Louisa Hodson, she was to account for the time spent while away. Louisa must also account for it. Miss Verinder was to go about with her mother as much as possible; to fulfil all social engagements that had already been made; to do the afternoon drives in Hyde Park, together with both her parents, and so on.

During the course of the morning he called upon his solicitors in Spring Gardens, and saw the head of the firm, Mr. Williams. He desired Mr. Williams to find out all about Anthony Dyke. “Find out everything you can for me. I want the fullest information I can get.” Mr. Williams, promising to do so, noticed that his client and old friend looked gloomy and depressed; and the brief interview terminated at once, without passing into the pleasant general chat that was customary when Mr. Verinder came to Spring Gardens.

It has been said that Mr. Verinder had a love of law and order. Truly, he adored them. We are all of us what our antecedent history makes us; and Mr. Verinder, looking backward far beyond his own birth, behind his grandfather’s birth even, could see such beneficent factors as open markets, stable rates of exchange, organised means of transport, together with banking and credit systems that are really based on the confidence inspired by a firm government—he could see all this not only as the solid foundation on which the British Empire had been raised, but as the prime cause of the success of those paper mills in the midlands from which he and his family derived their wealth. The mills had long ceased to give any trouble, they just went on; and he merely drew dividends or travelled by train occasionally to attend board meetings. But, of course, except for law and order, the mills could not have maintained their initial impetus so comfortably.

He was proud to think that the mills made paper used by government offices, and that his son Eustace—now aged thirty-three—was actually a government official. Eustace, after taking honours at the venerable long-established institution known as Oxford University, had entered the Board of Trade—not to stay there for ever, but as a step in his career; whereby he would lay up such a store of useful knowledge with regard to the wider aspects of national commerce as should enable him later on, when he went into Parliament, handsomely to assist the government of the day instead of hampering them with unenlightened criticism.

Except in relation to classical music, Mr. Verinder himself was never critical. He was content to bow to acknowledged authority in every form; respecting heads of professions and submitting to expert opinions; believing in the wisdom of judges on the bench, the art of Royal Academicians, the inspired logical faculty of bishops in conclave. Although a stout Anglican, he could not in any circumstances have brought himself to speak disparagingly of the Pope.

Simply but completely he loved his house, taking daily pleasure in its largeness, its unostentatious splendour, its immense comfort. As he lay in bed at night he liked to think of the number of people sleeping under his roof; also their dependence on him the chieftain, who took care of their food and their well-being, who had provided two bath-rooms solely for the servants’ use—one under the tiles for the women, one down in the basement for the men. It was a grand, well-managed house. It was his castle, his stronghold. He looked at it with satisfaction every time that he walked or drove up to it.

There was no taint of meanness in this feeling. He remembered with unselfish gladness that several of his friends were almost if not quite as fortunate. Mrs. Bell had one of the largest houses in Queen’s Gate, and throughout the whole Cromwell Road there was nothing bigger than Mrs. Clutton’s mansion. When speaking of these ladies he rarely omitted to mention the fact.

He loved his neighbourhood too. In imagination he could see it as finally completed, with the College of Music, the Colonial Institute, and all the other fine edifices grouping together—much as it is to-day. The Albert Hall was especially dear to him. He owned a box in it; some of his money went annually towards its maintenance. The vast and noble arena had no traditions earlier than the Prince Consort, but, oh, what glorious traditions since! It would be not too much to say that he derived a subtle kind of intellectual support from the adjacency of the Albert Hall. It stood there so close, unshakable, giving him a sensation directly due to its height above the eye and its stretch to either hand; solid and calm in its triumphant common-sense. For, if you want a building to hold the greatest possible number of people, then make it circular and avoid corners. Add a dome to render it sightly, but do not sacrifice use to ornamentation.

Nor, for the life of him, could he understand why certain folk tried to belittle the merit of the Albert Memorial. To him it seemed a very beautiful monument. He rejoiced even in its accessory groups of sculpture, admiring the taste and judgment that had led the artist to select a camel as symbolic of Africa and an elephant for Asia; often, when alone, he would mount the broad steps and study the reliefs about the square base; with the assistance of the chiselled names, he distinguished certain English Worthies, pausing here and there to gaze reverently at the genial attitude of Barry or the contemplative brow of Wren. English Worthies—the very title was pleasant to him; so honest and unpretentious. English Worthies! He was almost one himself—of course on a small scale, in a humble way.

He thought of Dyke as a subversive agency—an enemy to peace; something unamenable, uncontrollable, that suddenly threatened him, his family, and the whole neighbourhood. He began to hate Dyke, as the best of men begin to hate the thing they dread. It appeared to him now that he had seen through Dyke from the first moment, but that he had refused to be guided or warned by the clear light of his own intuitive intelligence. “I’d like to know that girl over there. Who is she?” when Dyke said something of that sort, he should have resented it as an impertinence and not accepted it as a compliment. Then Dyke had laughed, blatantly—offensively, if you came to think of it. “Pardon me for being a untutored savage.” But, no, one cannot pardon savagery—except in savage lands, at a remote distance, beyond the pale. One has to protect oneself against its effects. He wished that somehow he could get the whip-hand of Dyke. And yet even now, so kindly and trustful was he by nature, that at the very moment of dreading and hating Dyke, he could not believe the man really meant mischief.

Within his narrow limits he was always generous-minded. Markedly so with regard to money matters—and perhaps there is still no surer test of a person’s magnanimity than that which can be obtained by a record of his consistent attitude towards hard cash. Unlike many men who have all the money that they require, he did not crave for more. No petty gains or economies ever lured him. For instance, although Emmeline had come into the enjoyment of her income, he had never suggested or dreamed of suggesting that she should make any contribution to household expenses. She was freely welcome to bed and board, the attendance of Louisa, the use of the carriages. He had advised her to draw only such a portion of her income as she needed, leaving Mr. Williams of Spring Gardens to reinvest all surplus; and it made him happy to feel that she was doing this, and increasing her modest capital quarter by quarter.

Now, not unnaturally, he thought—as Mrs. Verinder had already thought—that, so far as a whip-hand over Emmeline was concerned, the soundness of her financial position robbed him of much desirable power.

This was Mr. Verinder. Unless one knew him and did him justice, one could not understand his state of mind. He was not in any respects the conventional old-fashioned father that lingered in the comic literature of the period. About him there was nothing either grotesque or preposterous.

After all, it was only 1895; say twenty-seven years ago—yesterday. There are large numbers of people to-day who think as he did then. There are men at his club and at other clubs saying in essence just what he used to say—when, not thinking of Emmeline, but merely generalising, he spoke of fin-de-siÈcle girls who mistake license for freedom, of regrettable up-to-date ideas, of the danger of abusing the word progress and pulling down before you have learnt to build up;—men who have passed through the devastating experience of the world-war and are less shaken by its rivers of blood, its fiery chaos, its starving millions, than by the social readjustments it has occasioned—“the passing of the old order,” as they call it—and the fact that half the members of the club won’t even trouble to put on a white shirt and a black tie for dinner.

A week passed, and, to Mr. Verinder’s supreme satisfaction, Emmeline showed herself altogether docile and amenable. She attended parties, she drove in the park, she spent afternoons and evenings with their friend Mrs. Bell, at Queen’s Gate, and was punctually brought home from these visits by Louisa. Mr. Verinder highly approved of them. Mrs. Bell was devoted to Emmeline, had always admired and made much of the child. Here would be a good influence. But not a hint had been given to Mrs. Bell of any trouble in the air. The only people who knew of the cause of anxiety were Margaret—and presumably Pratt—and, of course, Eustace.

Another week passed. The twelfth of July with its dinner party lay behind them. That feast, although shorn of its guest of honour, had not proved too dismal, all things considered. And in those two weeks not a sign from the enemy. Lulled into a sense of false security, Mr. Verinder began to feel easy in his mind.

Then he discovered that Dyke had been out of London for a fortnight. Dyke was in Scotland, giving lectures at the great Scottish cities. “Taking the hat round,” as he had himself described it. A banquet had been given in his honour at Edinburgh, with many notabilities present; the speechifying was recorded by the public press.

After another week or ten days Dyke returned to London. His return was chronicled in all the newspapers. They again began to make a fuss about him. And Mr. Verinder, at his club, had the mortification of hearing his praises sung by certain members of it. He had dined here, at Mr. Verinder’s club, last night—a little dinner in his honour, given by Duff-Steele, a personal friend of Mr. Verinder’s—with So-and-so, and So-and-so—and a few more. Dyke had kept them there yarning until two or three in the morning. They said, in effect, that he was entirely fascinating; a great irresponsible child, full of the most infectious gaiety. A real tip-topper, madcap, dare-devil—whatever you like—but evidently behind it all, a heart of gold. How he had talked! How he had laughed!

When Mr. Verinder reached home that afternoon Mrs. Verinder at once reported that Emmeline had become restless—very restless indeed. She felt that it would be necessary to watch her closely.

They did it for the next week or so, but Mr. Verinder had the uncomfortable sensation, shared by his wife, that no matter how carefully you watched, more was going on than met the eye. An atmosphere of suspicion permeated all the reception rooms of the house; Mr. Verinder’s discomfort and annoyance increased day by day.

Although Mr. Williams of Spring Gardens had long ago written to say he was prepared to communicate the result of his investigations, Mr. Verinder had not yet gone to receive them. He went now, after luncheon one day, and took Eustace from the Board of Trade with him.

There is a candour and unpretentiousness about the very best sort of solicitors that is sometimes almost startling to their clients. If you speak of investments, a really good solicitor will say at once that he is not a business man; if you speak of an attack on your character or a possible career for your children, he will say he is not a man of the world; if you are involved in a wrangle and fancy you have publicly libelled your adversary, he will say that he is not a lawyer. He doesn’t in the least mean that he will not carry through to a triumphant conclusion the affair, whatever it is, that you are bringing to him; he only means that he lays no claim to keeping a mass of encyclopÆdic knowledge on the tip of his tongue, to giving oracular decisions at a moment’s notice, or seeing through a brick wall without the aid of a periscope. He will take a little time going into the matter thoroughly, obtaining counsel’s opinion, doing everything necessary. Meanwhile and at once, in your presence, he often consults his books of reference; and it must be confessed that this reliance on books and the guileless manner of speaking about them does often disconcert, if it does not shake a client. “You doubt if your bargain is clinched?” says the really eminent solicitor; and he rings the bell for his clerk. “Bring me that book on Contracts, latest edition. And see if we have a directory of county court judges downstairs. I want to ascertain if there is any county court south of the Thames. And, look here, go upstairs and give my compliments to Mr. Cyril and ask him if he knows whether the Stock Exchange is open on Bank Holidays.”

Mr. Williams, of Spring Gardens, or his firm, had long conducted the affairs of the Verinder family in a most efficient style. He himself relied greatly on his books, which he kept in handsome book-cases in his own room. This solid old-world room was lighted by narrow windows with reflecting mirrors above them, and had no encumbrances of deed boxes and that sort of thing; a large beautifully neat table for Mr. Williams, a fine comfortable leather-seated chair for visitors, the picture of a marine battle over the chimneypiece, and one or two marble busts on top of the book-cases—that was all; and with these simple surroundings the owner of the room worked in it very happily and contentedly; looking up with a friendly smile as you came in at the door, and showing himself as a shortish, stoutish, fresh-complexioned person of sixty-five or a little more. As his intimates knew, he had only one sorrow in life—the certainty that sooner or later this room, the whole Queen Anne house, and the rest of Spring Gardens, would be swept away by London’s unbridled rage for street improvements. But he hoped they would last his time.

He begged Mr. Verinder and Mr. Eustace Verinder to sit down, and with an air of innocent triumph said that he had found out a great deal about Anthony Dyke.

“I may say that directly you mentioned the name, it seemed familiar to me.”

“It is familiar to everyone,” said old Mr. Verinder rather irritably, and his son sneered. Eustace had a trick of sneering and saying pointed things, in a polite Oxford manner on which he had superimposed a slight veneer of officialness.

“To begin with,” said Mr. Williams, “he is a married man.”

“Yes, I knew that,” said Mr. Verinder.

“Oh, you did? But he is not living with his wife.”

“So I understood.”

“They have been separated for years—and there is a reason.” And Mr. Williams explained how he had found it all in his book. “I have it all here under my hand”; and he laid his hand on the useful volume, lying there on the table. “As soon as you told me the name it aroused associations in my memory—apart from his public performances, you know. There was a law suit—years ago—quite an important case. Mrs. Dyke proved to be out of her mind—immediately after the wedding—and Dyke tried to get the marriage annulled, on the grounds that her people had deceived him. He failed of course.”

Mr. Verinder had not known about the madness, and he sat frowning and brooding over it. Then presently he asked what Mr. Williams had discovered about the man himself.

“Yes,” said Mr. Williams, “I have his whole record here.” And he began to read from a paper of notes, saying that Anthony Dyke left Africa for Australia in such and such a year; was thanked by the government of Queensland for explorations in the interior of the continent in the year 1885; and in 1887 made his first Antarctic cruise, which resulted in the discovery of the island now known as Anthony Dyke Land. It was of course all in the books, and Mr. Verinder, who already knew it by heart, interrupted very irritably.

“Yes, yes, yes. No more than that? Very good.” Then, after exchanging a glance with Eustace, he said, “Williams, the fact is—Frankly, our trouble is this. He is paying undesirable attentions to my daughter.”

“Oh, really?” Mr. Williams showed suitable distress as well as surprise, and he looked across at the bookcases. “Which of your daughters?”

“My unmarried daughter.”

“Oh, really? Miss Emmeline!”

“Yes. What would you advise me to do?”

“Ah, that’s somewhat difficult to say. Off-hand, I should scarcely like—”

And another look given by Mr. Williams to the book-shelves was that of a timid swimmer who feels deep water under him and sees the solid shore fast receding. “From what you have let fall—well, so little to go on, from what you have let fall.”

Mr. Verinder let everything fall, and pressed for counsel.

And then Mr. Williams, bracing himself to the effort and striking out boldly, advised that in his opinion Dyke should be at once tackled.

“Tackled?” said Mr. Verinder. “What do you mean by tackled?”

Mr. Williams meant brought to book, called to account, and so forth; and he said something that Mr. Verinder grasped at because it echoed a hope that he was still glad not to abandon altogether. Mr. Williams considered that, although there had been impropriety in Dyke’s attitude, they might be very wrong in assuming that he really entertained bad motives.

“Why jump to the conclusion that he intends harm? Tackle him, and he himself may express regret and discontinue the annoyance. Would you wish me to write him a letter?”

“No,” said Mr. Verinder. “But perhaps an interview here, in your presence?”

Mr. Williams, not taking to this idea, suggested that it would be better to get hold of Dyke informally; and after further talk it was decided that Eustace Verinder should go to him not for the real tackling, but for a preliminary skirmish in which an interview with the young lady’s father should be arranged.

“You know him personally?” asked Mr. Williams.

“No,” said Eustace, sneering slightly. “As yet I have not had the privilege of setting eyes on this gentleman.”

“One moment,” said Mr. Williams, picking up the notes. “I have his address here. It is care of his bankers—a bank in Fleet Street.”

But the Verinders were better informed. Dyke’s visiting cards told them that he belonged to a club in Pall Mall—one of the oldest and best clubs in the street.

“When will you go there?” asked Mr. Williams.

“Now,” said Eustace resolutely.

He parted with his father in Cockspur Street, and strolled on to Pall Mall by himself.

It was now what journalists of those days called the apotheosis of the London season; what was then considered a flood of traffic came pouring down Waterloo Place; large open carriages with a mother and one daughter on the back seat, and a red book and another daughter on the front seat, swept across to and from Carlton House Terrace, while splendid padded veterans at the corner outside the Senior and sedate members of the Government outside the AthenÆum took off their silk hats or even kissed the tips of their gloved fingers. The pavements of Pall Mall were full of gentlemen in black coats and top hats, with here and there a white waistcoat and a button-hole to light up the throng; the sentry in scarlet and bearskin outside the War Office stood presenting arms to the passage of a field officer; and one had a sensation of the further glories at the end of the street—Marlborough House, with the Prince and Princess of Wales perhaps just emerging from the gates, the old palace where a brilliant levÉe had taken place that morning, the drive shaded by close-standing elms along which people drove to daylight drawing-rooms—an impression of the leisurely pomp, the well-ordered stately calm of the whole realm.

It was 1895, essentially yesterday, and yet, if judged by external aspect alone, another world—the world in which people behaved with dignity, looked pleasant, and never did objectionable things. Eustace Verinder, tall, dark, already bald under his silk hat, looking like the cabinet-minister that he intended later on to be, formed a small but harmonious part of this world; and his blood boiled tepidly at the thought that any intruder should dare at once to violate the governing code of good manners and menace his sister’s fair name.

As he approached Dyke’s club an amazingly incongruous figure came down its steps. It was a tall big man in a sombrero hat, with a canvas wallet slung over his back and a long staff in his hand; he looked like a pilgrim, like a youthful Tolstoy, like anything strange and odd and absurdly out of place. Eustace noticed the outlandish dun colour of his flannel suit, the huge collar of his flannel shirt flapping over his jacket and all open at the hairy throat, and, feeling shocked at such a moving outrage to convention, stared after him as he stalked across the roadway and disappeared into St. James Square.

The hall porter told Eustace that Mr. Dyke had just left the club. “Just this minute, sir. Shall I send the boy to see if he can catch him?”

Eustace said no, it did not matter. He felt that he ought to have guessed, after all his father had told him. But it was so far worse than one could imagine. He went away feeling profoundly disgusted. To dress like that, in London, at half past three p.m., with the season at its apotheosis!

Anthony Dyke had, in fact, dressed like that only because he was going for a walk. He felt that, yielding to civilization’s enticements, he had been for some time sitting too much, eating too much, above all else sleeping too much, and he needed a walk. He had therefore slipped on what seemed to him very suitable attire for the purpose, gone to the club coffee-room to fill his wallet with some fruit and a few rolls of bread—and now was off. Naturally, with the hero of the Andes, a walk meant a walk. He would go straight ahead, over Hampstead Heath into Hertfordshire, round that county and any other counties adjacent; he would walk all night, and probably all day to-morrow; then he would come back, have a bath, and feel thoroughly refreshed—the limbs loosened by gentle exercise, civilization’s rust rubbed out of his joints and the mind clarified by avoidance of slumber.